During the 1990’s I served as a militia leader in Texas; it was after Federal agents killed Vickie Weaver and her son in Ruby Ridge, Idaho (1992), the Branch Davidian massacre in Waco, Texas (1993), the Assault Weapons Ban (1994), and the Oklahoma City bombing (1995). The nation was in turmoil. The Clintons were in power with “Bloody Janet” Reno as Attorney General. Even the Home-Schooling movement was under fire by the Clinton cabal. We were told it “took a village’ to raise our children–but their village was full of unpatriotic idiots.
Democrat Ann Richards (responsible for the illegal military involvement at the Waco massacre) was Governor of Texas, and we had almost no gun rights. You couldn’t even legally carry a pistol in your vehicle unless you could establish that you were “traveling” and staying away from home overnight (keep a suitcase in the trunk). By 1996 the militia movement was in full swing across the nation, with a bunch of poorly-trained men and women in camo, faced off against well-armed federal agents, law enforcement and the National guard. To say it was a powder keg would be an understatement. To make matters even more dangerous, the feds were using undercover operatives to stir up and instigate violence in militias.
Today when I see people write about how close to a revolution we are, I understand the sentiment, but you ain’t seen nothing yet! Wait until you decide to group together, armed and wearing some kind of military uniform, making loud anti-government statements, and planning your resistance! Lots of interesting things will follow! Siren’s Song
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Oh, the romance of being a revolutionary: square-jawed, armed and dangerous, feared by men, admired by women and children–and your dog. But mostly it gives you a chance to buy loads of expensive, dangerous-looking toys and cool camo gear! Who could resist swaggering around with salty BVD’s, and a full complement of “weapons of war” strapped to your body? Then there are bivouacs where, after a hard day of standing around in the woods, you sit around a campfire talking shit. Maybe, if you’re lucky, one of the militia members has some acreage where you can waste a couple of hundred dollars praying and spraying ammo in the general direction of a target—it’s all about the noise! The member with the loudest gun wins. And let’s not forget the comradery forged in the fires of Hell as you and your buddies fight off mosquitos during practice night missions while humping the seventy pounds of gear (mostly useless to real guerilla fighters) someone convinced you to purchase.
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